


Cures and Remedies

by Jackie Thomas (Jackie_Thomas)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:47:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23052724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackie_Thomas/pseuds/Jackie%20Thomas
Summary: “Whatever is the matter?”  Aziraphale asks and Crowley shrugs open the cloak to reveal a swaddled baby held in the crook of his arm.  “Oh, good Heavens.”Crowley saves a baby’s life.  Who is this child and why is he in danger?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 95
Kudos: 264





	1. Bukhara, 710

Aziraphale is opening his remedies shop for the day when he sees Crowley hurrying along the vaulted arcade toward him. Steering Aziraphale back into the shop, he closes the door. Crowley is wearing a cloak over his usual fashionable attire and he lets the hood fall back. When he is calm his eyes are almost human-shaped, today they are the two yellow discs of an alien sunrise.

“Whatever is the matter?” Aziraphale asks and Crowley shrugs open the cloak to reveal a swaddled baby held in the crook of his arm. “Oh, good Heavens.”

The baby blinks in the sudden light and makes discontented noises.

“I need a favour,” Crowley says. “Can you look after him? Just for the morning.”

“Whose baby is this?”

“No one’s. His parents are dead.”

“Why have you got him?”

“Please, angel, I don’t have time. I’ve got to do a temptation at the Merchants’ Guild and I’m already late.”

Crowley is wearing a long, silk, belted tunic, narrow trousers and leather boots. He snaps away the cloak, replacing it with a brocade jacket. His untidy plait unravels and a grey silk band appears, holding back long, suddenly almond scented hair.

“Humans look after humans. Can’t you leave him with a neighbour?”

Crowley waves away a baby-related stain from his shoulder, “No.”

“Well, why not?”

“I’ve got to move house. Someone saw my feet and now its _Azi Dahaka_ this, _Azi Dahaka_ that.”

“The snake demon. Very perceptive of them. For goodness sake, Crowley, be more careful.”

“Says the angel of a thousand unauthorised miracles a day. Look, I’ve got to go.”

The baby is in Aziraphale’s arms before he has agreed to anything.

“What am I supposed to feed him?”

“Snap something up.”

“Well, really,” he says to Crowley’s departing back. “This is the absolute limit.”

Aziraphale cradles the murmuring baby, who squints up at him and makes an ‘o’ with his mouth. He has delicate Turkic features, but with the unbaked look of a newborn.

“Good thing I didn’t agree to his _arrangement_ , isn’t it? Wouldn’t want to be permanently at his beck and call, would I?”

The baby studies him, falling briefly silent.

“And he didn’t even tell me your name. What will I call you?”

He drifts his hand over the tiny body as he speaks. The child is fully human and not more than two days old. His heart beats steadily and his healthy lungs are preparing themselves for a good cry. Despite having recently fed, he is unsatisfied and this is making him tearful.

“He thinks he can solve everything by snapping his fingers, doesn’t he, darling?”

Aziraphale has opinions about giving miracled food to infants but has no intention of doing anything complicated with his human form to manage the process himself. One of his neighbours, the sister of the gem dealer three doors along, is a professional wet nurse and he brings the boy to her.

A small miracle ensures he feeds without hesitation. Another that she can be available today when needed. So, with future meals secured, Aziraphale brings the now sleeping baby back to the shop. He snaps a cradle into existence, places it in a safe spot out of the sun, and puts him to bed. Satisfied he has done all he can for the child, he greets his first customer and his unfortunate skin condition.

*~*

In his shop, Aziraphale sells potions, powders and ointments to anyone in need. He will cure any ailment from digestive disturbance to melancholy, from limps to mysterious growths, from warts to heart conditions. Customers pay a few coins, because people mistrust anything given free, and come away with a bottle or jar. It doesn’t matter which they choose, it will work and they will recover.

In the two decades the shop has been open, word has spread. It is widely known that in Bukhara there is a white-robed man with cloud hair, who will heal any illness or injury. Travellers come from across Sogdiana, Ferghana and Khorezm to find him. Knowledge of him is shared around campfires all along the trade routes. He is spoken of in the far reaches of China, in the lands of the Slavs, throughout Africa, Europe and South Asia. His remedies are transported back across the world in the saddle bags of Bactrian camels and in the hulls of ships to almost everywhere there are humans and, in this way, nearly the entire planet benefits.

He has never been more certain he is fulfilling his angelic purpose on Earth. To share Her love with humans, to share Her grace, to make the lives of Her most beloved creation better in ways, small and large. He glorifies God without extracting any burdensome duties or imposing any bizarre rules as the religions do. And, crucially, without drowning everyone, smiting any towns, sacrificing any children or nailing anyone’s soft bits to a plank of wood.

This has all come about without Heaven’s guidance. His instructions from Gabriel are frustratingly vague. ‘Stay down there’ is the gist of them. Also, ‘don’t come back’, ‘stop being annoying’ and ‘are you still here?’. He likes Earth and is happy to be stationed here, he simply needs a clear purpose.

Crowley occasionally reminds him his purpose on earth was to guard an apple tree and look how that turned out.

It is certainly true, after the whole dreadful business with the forbidden fruit (which surely must be the worst possible combination of words) he has wanted to make amends. He still doesn’t know how it was possible for him to guard the tree while simultaneously maintaining his presence at the distant Eastern Gate but recognises there must have been a way. He doesn’t believe the serpent when he tells him he was meant to fail.

He also doesn’t believe him when he tells him Heaven is not going to be pleased when it finds out he is dispensing miracles indiscriminately. Indiscriminately!

Crowley. Why is Crowley’s voice the one in his head? Why does it always come back to his opinion? He has such a way of turning up with his teasing comments and provoking ideas. And now, it seems, inconvenient babies.

Although he also has a way of turning up with raisin wine and pistachio cake and other hard to obtain delicacies.

This might be part of a complicated extended temptation but Aziraphale stopped believing this long ago. All he seems to want to do when they are together is drink and argue and compare grievances about their respective masters.

The meetings fill Aziraphale with apprehension, they are beyond dangerous, but he appreciates, even longs for, the company. After all, as time flows like a gently miracled cask of raisin wine, as kingdoms rise and fall, as humans come and go, leaving behind unrecognisable world after unrecognisable world who else is there to talk to? Who else would understand?

*~*

So much for ‘just the morning’, the sun is setting and the shop is closed by the time Crowley returns. Aziraphale has taken baby and cradle to the living quarters at the back of the shop. He keeps the oil lamp dimmed so he is not disturbed and has built a fire in case the evening turns chilly for the little one.

Apart from a writing desk and chair for when he is studying, life in the room is mostly conducted at ground level on rugs and scattered cushions. When Crowley comes in, he goes straight to the cradle on the floor beside Aziraphale.

“Has he been all right?”

“Oh yes, a delight.”

The baby has been good company, waking every so often bothered by some trouble or other but settling quickly once he is held or fed or had his linens changed.

“He wasn’t this peaceful last night,” Crowley says. “How did you do it?”

“My neighbour is a wet nurse. He’s fed very well today.”

“I should get one of those, shouldn’t I?”

“Miracled food is all very well, but he is human and needs human sustenance.”

Crowley seems surprised to be offered a cup of wine and a seat beside the fire.

“Are you going to tell me what this is about?” Aziraphale asks.

“Don’t know what you mean. I found him abandoned, that’s all.”

“So you took him home? Why this one? Why not give him to a family? And if he was abandoned, how do you know his parents are dead?”

Crowley sighs, “All right, I know they’re dead because I found him next to their bodies.”

“Did you have something to do with their deaths?”

“No,” he says firmly.

“Crowley, who is this child?”

“As far as I know, just a human baby.”

Aziraphale sees this is the truth, but not the whole truth.

When the baby wakes, Aziraphale brings the wet nurse, Fuzhitai to feed him and discuss a permanent arrangement with Crowley. Once all is settled and she has returned home, Crowley switches his jacket for another cloak, carefully takes the baby from where he is sleeping in Aziraphale arms, and gets ready to leave.

“Oh, by the way,” Aziraphale asks. “What’s his name?”

“I don’t know. How do you find out? Do you ask a priest?”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, “If you intend to keep him, you’ll need to name him.”

“I’ll - yeah.”

“Although, I’m assuming you’re not intending to keep him.”

Crowley nestles the baby beneath his cloak and pushes up the hood to conceal his eyes.

“I think I have to,” he says in almost a whisper. “No choice in the matter, angel. I’ll see you soon.”

Aziraphale unlocks the shop door for him. He sees Crowley pause and briefly close his eyes. He is checking for non-human presence, checking for threats. Aziraphale instinctively does the same.

It is all reassuringly human; the bustle and stink of the nearby market winding down, the smoky scent of grilling meat, a street musician pounding a drum for dirham.

“Nothing’s out there,” he says mildly.

Crowley gives him a swift, worried look and disappears into the Bukharan evening.


	2. Bukhara, 710, 3 months later

It is usual for a baby placed with a wet nurse to live with her, under her care, until he or she is weaned. Crowley doesn’t allow this. He moves to a house near their arcade and brings the baby to Fuzhitai, at any hour, to be fed while he waits. She is bemused and charmed by this behaviour, unheard of in her fathers. Aziraphale can see he is simply too scared to let the child out of his sight.

Crowley often brings the baby to the remedies shop to pass the time between feeds. Aziraphale sees the boy begin to take an interest in the world, to engage with it and take pleasure in it. Crowley delights in him, showing off every small development and presenting it as proof of his superior intelligence. The baby is equally enraptured. When he learns to smile, he usually smiles at Crowley.

*~*

Crowley has three months free of assignments from Hell, but one morning at dawn, he knocks at Aziraphale’s door dressed for a journey. The baby is in his arms, struggling out of a blanket, crying and rubbing his eyes.

“I’ve got a temptation,” Crowley says. “Can you take him? I won’t get back for a couple of days.”

“Yes, I’ll take him. Where are you going?”

“Samarkand. And you keep him, yes? Don’t leave him with Fuzhitai.”

“Is there any particular danger I should be aware of?”

Crowley pauses, “Hell,” he admits. “Maybe Hell. But no one’s about. We’d both know if there were any demons in the city.”

“For goodness sake, you must tell me why you are so worried. How can I protect him if I don’t know?”

“All right. All right. When I get back, I’ll tell you what I know. I have to go now, but I promise, when I get back.”

He kisses the child and passes him to Aziraphale. He immediately stops crying.

“Oh, very clever,” Crowley says. “I suppose that’s an angel thing. Where were you last night when he was screaming the house down?”

“I was here,” Aziraphale says. “I’ll always be here for this little fellow.”

Crowley takes off the dark-lensed glasses he sometimes wears to conceal his eyes and gives him a long look, “Do you mean it?”

“Do I mean it?” He had said it for the baby’s benefit; more for the friendly tone of voice than anything, but Crowley is looking at him in great solemnity. “Of course I do,” he says. “Of course I mean it. You know I do.”

Crowley looks down at the baby, giving him his finger to grab hold of. 

“I should go,” he says softly.

“Tell me what I need to know.”

“Yes, right.”

A long and detailed list of care instructions follow.

“Have you got all that?” Aziraphale asks of the baby who gurgles affirmatively. “And I don’t suppose you have a name yet?”

He addresses Crowley, “I know it took you four thousand years to come up with your own name, but this is getting ridiculous.”

“I have named him, actually.”

“Finally. Go on.” 

“I’ve called him Rostam.”

Aziraphale is horrified, “You can’t.”

“Why not? He’s a big hero in these parts. Brave and noble, all of that.”

“He’s a _demon killer_. In their myths, he is famous for killing demons.”

“I know,” he says distantly. “And this boy might have to kill some demons. One day, he might have to do just that.” He slides his glasses back on. “Got to go; camel waiting.” 

*~* 

Even with a direct road and easy summer travelling, Aziraphale does not believe Crowley can reach Samarkand, conclude his business and get back to Bukhara in two days, so he settles in for a long visit.

The baby remains ‘darling’ as he cannot bring himself to use his new given name. He needs more attention now and Aziraphale often finds himself serving customers while attempting to keep hold of a noisy, curious child who doesn’t much like sleeping. But he is usually cheerful and they enjoy their time together.

He is bathing him one morning before opening the shop when he realises six days have gone by. He has a moment of anxiety. 

“Is your Crowley coming back, at all?” He asks. “Or do we have to assume he has been dragged back down to Hell?”

He is startled to hear Crowley’s voice, as clear as if he were in the room, _“On my way, angel.”_

How had that happened? Angels can communicate telepathically but never on Earth in their human forms and never, he presumes, with demons. And he has definitely never had telepathic communication with Crowley.

He looks down at the baby splashing obliviously, “Something to do with you, little one?”

 _“I told you he was clever,”_ says the laughing voice in his head, before abruptly falling silent.

Crowley is home that evening. Aziraphale has settled the baby, content but not sleeping, in his cradle. He has created a little planetary system revolving around a yellow sun for him to look at. When the child gets restless, he sends shooting stars across it and enjoys the delighted laughter this provokes. 

“Nice solar system, angel,” Crowley says when he returns. “Couldn’t have done better myself.”

He gathers the baby into his arms for a joyful reunion while Aziraphale is subjected to a lengthy interrogation about his feeding, related digestive activities and general wellbeing. Aziraphale is also presented with a box of almond and walnut pastries. A particular favourite.

Aziraphale pours wine for them both and Crowley sits cross-legged on the floor, the baby against his shoulder, rubbing soothing circles into his back.

After he has shared some gossip from the Samarkand court and lodged a detailed complaint about his camel’s deplorable behaviour, Aziraphale reminds him of his promise to bring him up to date on the baby’s story.

“Honestly, I don’t know much,” he says. “I was told to go to his parents’ house in Silver Street and make sure there were no surviving babies. When I got there everyone in the street was recently dead. Maybe forty people.”

“Crowley, how?”

“Not a mark on them; I think they died of a fever.”

“A curse?”

“More than likely but I wasn’t told. There were three bodies in the house; mother, father and, I suppose, a grandmother. The baby was with the mother’s body. He was quiet, very close to death too.”

“And you saved him instead of letting him die? Do you realise what trouble you could be in?”

“Er, yes. But you never know with Hell. Sometimes it has a long memory, sometimes not. I’m still getting jobs and I haven’t been summoned, so maybe I got away with it.”

“It’s only been a few months,” Aziraphale says quietly. “Time works differently down there.”

“Yeah.” He sighs and presses his lips to the top of the baby’s head. “I know.”

The child starts to gets restless and he shifts him to lie in his arms.

“He’s due a feed,” Aziraphale says.

“I should take him next door and then get him home.”

“Are we going to talk about what happened this morning?”

“That was _weird_. It was as if you were on the blasted camel with me. So can you read my mind now?”

“Good Heavens, no.”

“I can’t read yours either, thank Satan. Maybe it’s something we can do when we need to. We’ve just never needed to before.”

“This is terribly dangerous.”

“I don’t know, it works out well for one of us. Think of it; I don’t have to be in the room for you to fuss at me.” 

“I’m glad you find it amusing, I hope Heaven and Hell do too if they ever find out.”

“How would they? They’re not going to find out.”

“So you always say.”

“And so far, so good, right? Let’s go, Rosty. Dinner time. Don’t look like that, angel, there are plenty of Rostams in Bukhara.”

Aziraphale picks up a blanket from the cradle and tucks it around the baby.

“I don’t know why you would pick that name. I can’t bring myself to use it.”

“You really don’t like it?”

“I hate it.”

Crowley places the baby in Aziraphale’s arms. “You name him.”

“I?”

“It’s no good if you don’t like it.”

“It’s not my place.”

“Yeah, it is, go on. Baptise him. Just warn me if you’re going to whip out the holy water.” 

Somehow, he doesn’t have to think about it. The name is waiting to be spoken.

“If you’re sure. Then I should like to call him Selim. It means peace in many languages. Doesn’t it suit him better?”

Crowley tries it out, “Selim. I like it. Yes, that’s good.”

Aziraphale plants a kiss on the baby’s forehead and blesses him, “Dear Selim,” he says and gives him back to Crowley who, smiling, does the same.


	3. Bukhara, 711

Months pass and they find themselves starting to relax. Hell asks no questions and pays no visits. In low voices, they hazard explanations. Perhaps the bureaucracy of the abyss has moved on and the matter of Selim and his family has been filed away, marked complete. Perhaps a junior demon has carelessly left a loose end untied or been unwilling to admit failure. Perhaps the whole business was a mistake. One human baby is very much like another, after all. They have to content themselves with guesses because taking any step to find out the truth is unthinkably dangerous.

When Fuzhitai’s services are no longer required, Crowley moves with Selim to a house near the city wall. As is becoming their practice, he and Aziraphale put enough distance between them that each can deny knowing the other is in the city if ever challenged. Since it does no harm, it doesn’t feel wrong to keep information such as this from Heaven.

Demon and boy are still regular visitors at the remedies shop and, when the black-trimmed scrolls arrive, sending Crowley here and there on temptations, Selim comes to stay with Aziraphale. 

One evening, Aziraphale is showing his last customer out when he sees that all the shops in the arcade have their shutters closed and the stalls have been dragged away to more sheltered spots. This only happens when a blizzard is expected. It has been an unusually harsh winter, of freezing temperatures and frequent snowfalls. Neighbours have been warning all day of worse to come. 

The arcade is situated on the main market square and, despite its stone roof, is open to the elements through half a dozen entrances. He can feel an icy wind from the mountains blowing through and watches as snow starts to accumulate in doorways. He whispers a blessing for the people of the city and closes his own shop.

He has acquired a vellum manuscript from fifth century Spain and is looking forward to spending the evening studying it. But as he settles at his desk with a bowl of hot China tea, he hears Crowley’s voice.

“ _No, no, darling, it’s time for bed_.” He is speaking in the gentle voice he reserves for Selim but he sounds exhausted. “ _Ssh now, it’s all right, don’t cry, I’ve got you.”_

 _“Crowley?”_

They have not communicated telepathically since the first time, discovering it is not something they are able to control. He doesn’t know why he can hear him now.

_“Aziraphale? You’re hearing me?”_

_“Quite clearly. Are you and Selim all right?”_

_“He isn’t very happy,”_ comes the eventual reply. _“The house is draughty and I can’t keep him warm. Look, there’s no chance we can come and stay with you, is there? I wouldn’t ask but -”_

 _“Come quickly,”_ he replies. _“I’ll be snowed in soon.”_

It doesn’t make sense. Crowley has a low body temperature, which is another relic of his snake form, but with a thought his house can be any temperature he wishes. 

Aziraphale lights the fire and ensures the clay pots lined up beside the garden door, are filled with fresh well water. Some of his customers pay in food. Today, he has roast mutton, dates, bread and barley which he hasn’t had a chance to donate to the poor. He keeps these for Selim.

Crowley soon arrives wearing a snow-dusted cloak and carrying a large bag over his shoulder. The ridiculous conical hat he has taken to wearing in the manner of the Sogdian traders is pulled down over his ears rather than sitting at its typical forehead revealing, fashionable angle. He pushes down the scarf covering his face.

“It’s _bastard_ cold,” he says unnecessarily.

There is crying coming from under the cloak and Crowley hands Aziraphale a ball of unhappy sheepskin. Aziraphale brings Selim into the back room to warm up, holding him close and soothing him. 

“He misses you,” Crowley says, dropping the bag and peeling off his gloves to warm his hands by the fire. “And that’s not helping his mood.”

“I missed you too, darling,” Aziraphale says.

“He keeps catching cold and I’m worried Hell will want to know why all my curses involve curing the runny noses of infants.”

Which explains why he is using his powers so sparingly.

“I do believe humans need to build up their resistance to minor ailments,” Aziraphale says. He has made a study of the subject.

Crowley opens his bag to take out a bedroll and blankets, “But we won’t let him suffer, will we?”

“It’s for his own good.”

Crowley gives him a ‘don’t start’ look. He is every sleep deprived parent who ever came through the door of his shop. They don’t believe the ‘building up resistance’ advice either.

“Shall I get him ready for bed?”

“You’re an angel, angel.” Crowley digs out what he needs from the bag. “The human way, yeah?”

“Of course.”

Crowley warms milk while Aziraphale lays the child down to change him. It isn’t long before Selim is warm, fed, _sung to_ and finally sleeping.

“He’s hardly slept all week,” Crowley says gazing down at him. He is no longer a baby but a little human boy, a few months off his second birthday, serious and intent on his dreams. “Demons are not known for their parenting skills; it must be your influence.”

“Come now, do you think yours is the first child to miss a night’s sleep? I believe they’re known for it.”

“I know but -, I know our masters wouldn’t approve, but I’m glad we’re here.”

And, goodness, he is right. How had he not thought of it? He is so used to having the boy around, he has let himself forget the risks.

“Well, we shall stay on our guard.”

Crowley eventually falls asleep too, against a pile of cushions with a cup of wine in his hand. Aziraphale takes the cup from him and covers him with a blanket. Selim wakes soon after, disturbing Crowley with a cry. Crowley pushes back his blanket and reaches for Selim, who shuffles over and fits himself into his arms. The two of them sleep, curled up together like this through the night.

“Extraordinary,” Aziraphale murmurs, before finally getting to his manuscript.

By the time Selim wakes again at dawn, the snow is up to the door handles and still coming down fast. Aziraphale turns one of his walls to glass so Selim can see outside. They watch the wild snowfall together while sharing a plate of bread and honey. The excitement is too much. 

“Crow! Look! Crow!” Selim shouts, toddling over and tugging off Crowley’s blanket.

“Oh God, Satan, what’s happening?” He groans but allows himself to be dragged over to watch the display.

The child, delirious and attaching honey to everything he touches, mainly Crowley, bounces unsteadily between them, shouting at the snow. Aziraphale can’t remember a better start to the day.

*~*

The cold spell doesn’t end; each thaw is quickly followed by more snow and freezing wind. The city falls silent, conducting its business indoors. The caravanserais have been empty since the start of winter but even traders and visitors from within the region stay away. Aziraphale hangs a ‘knock for service’ sign on his door but few do.

It is not, however, a quiet time. Selim is an unlimited energy source in a confined space, fuelled by a near constant appetite.

Aziraphale had never appreciated the practicalities of keeping a human fed until one came into his life and he was forced to confront them. Neither, apparently, had Crowley.

“I thought you were bad; I didn’t know when I was well off,” Crowley grumbles as he miracles himself into warm layers for another trip out to the market to see who has set out their stall. “It’s a design flaw.”

“What is?”

“If She had made them in a sensible way, so they only needed to eat once a fortnight.”

“Like snakes, for example?”

“Exactly. Like snakes. Their lives would be a lot easier.”

“A lot duller,” Aziraphale says lifting an excited child onto his hip to wave Crowley off. “Selim wants steamed dumplings.”

“Oh, Selim does, does he? Does he want anything else?”

“Noodles, I believe. Eggs for those little omelettes. Sheep’s cheese, yoghurt, dried figs. Whatever clever thing the bakers have come up with.”

“That it?”

“Well, you know, whatever looks good.”

Throughout his time with Aziraphale, Crowley cares for Selim with a serious, studied dedication as if, with one wrong move, he might fail an important test and ruin everything. During the day he plays with him, helps him with eating, walking, talking and all the other skills he must learn. He is ever vigilant against harms, self-inflicted or otherwise. And when he is not doing all that, he is washing his clothes, cooking him stews, soups and his own version of _Plov_ , Bukhara’s favourite rice dish. The shop’s living quarters have expanded and at night Crowley takes Selim to sleep beside him in the new room. 

Aziraphale finds himself moved but not surprised by Crowley’s devotion. He hardly bothers to pretend to be a properly evil demon, after all. It is toward the end of the first week that he does something truly astonishing.

Selim has fallen asleep on Aziraphale’s lap midway through a story and not wishing to disturb him by moving, he watches Crowley. He is roaming the room, all tasks complete, looking for something to do. After a time, he disappears into the new room and emerges with a piece of ivory coloured silk and some silk thread. He sits among the cushions beside the fire and starts working on a piece of embroidery. _Embroidery_. Aziraphale nearly drops the baby.

The cloth is a long rectangle, the size of a scarf and the design is a complex pattern of flowers, leaves and stems. The colours are rich reds, purples and greens, threaded with gold.

“Not a word, angel,” Crowley warns.

“Oh but, where did you learn to do this?”

Crowley checks he is not being mocked.

“Around. You know how it is. I know it’s not exactly demonic.”

Aziraphale nods down at Selim, the boy stolen from death, the little unauthorised miracle, “I don’t believe you’ve ever had anyone convinced on that count, dear fellow.”

“It’s just to pass the time, really. I’m slow, though. Takes me aeons to finish anything. The human way or there’s no point.”

“And you can see clearly enough? Well, obviously you can.”

“Yeah, I can see all right.” He suddenly looks exposed. “Do you like it? Really?”

“Crowley, it’s wonderful.”

“Wouldn’t go that far,” he says, pleased.

Aziraphale watches him work until he realises he would be happy to never look at anything else. This frightens him and he looks away.

Crowley has been on earth as long as he, but they have never lived so closely together as they have in Bukhara these last two decades. In the earliest years of humanity, they were often on opposite sides of the globe for many seasons at a time, their paths crossing once in a century or less.

Sometimes, seeking company, Aziraphale would join a human tribe, sit at their fire with them and listen to their stories. Later there would be temples, longhouses and taverns, great halls of nobles, squares of townspeople. Crowley must have mingled with humans in the same ways as he. Not quite belonging, but throwing enough of a glamour to make himself accepted.

Perhaps, as he does occasionally, he shifted his shape to be able to join the women creating embroidery for brides, for walls, for the market. Perhaps he stayed with them for as long as it took him to learn, even if it was the span of a human lifetime. He is good at it. His long fingers take to the task naturally. He is painstakingly creating something beautiful, stitch by minute stitch.

He is good at so many things, human and otherwise. He has a quick understanding, a sharp wit, a kind heart. He makes Selim happy whatever he thinks of himself and always finds time to take care of Aziraphale who doesn’t need it. Hell forces this extraordinary creature to wander the planet making mischief, rendering life confusing, chaotic or even impossible for humans. And that is a waste, a crime and just wrong.

“What’s wrong, angel?”

Crowley has caught him staring into the fire.

“Nothing, just thinking.”

“What about?”

“Oh, I suppose, how unfair everything is.”

Crowley puts his work aside to reach for the jug of wine. He gets up to refill Aziraphale’s cup and stops to plant a kiss on Selim’s sleep-flushed cheek and, a moment later, another kiss to Aziraphale’s forehead.

“Not all bad, is it? This is nice. This is really nice.”

This only makes him sadder. It reminds him of the truths he likes to forget. That they are on opposite sides. They may be enjoying this rather lovely truce, but they will eventually, inevitably oppose each other in a war; Heaven versus Hell, angel versus demon. And that will be the end of everything. Aziraphale’s face can keep no secrets so Crowley sees all of this.

“I tell you what’s unfair,” he says, returning to his place. “Selim is going to die.”

“No, Crowley.”

“I don’t mean like that. Even if Hell leaves him alone, even if I can protect him, even if he lives to be a hundred. One day he is going to die. And I can’t stand to think of him falling into Hell or having to deal with Heaven’s crap. And those are the only choices.”

Aziraphale doesn’t come to Heaven’s defence although he very much wants to. There is nothing he can say. Telling Crowley Heaven will be a wonderful place for Selim won’t help. Because it was not wonderful for him. Heaven banished him and it is hard to see what he could possibly have done to deserve it. 

“It isn’t fair,” he finds himself fervently declaring. “It is not fair at all.”


	4. Bukhara, 712, one month later

A month later the wind dies away, the cold eases, a thaw begins and the city springs back to life. Aziraphale finds himself mourning the snow because, with its passing, Crowley and Selim will leave.

Selim is a fast-growing, chaotic, might as well be part-demon, whirlwind he has come to love. He is a friendly spirit causing objects in his path to fall to pieces and anything clean to become smudged. The casualties are unending. (“Crowley, did your child just spill milk on _John the Divine of Patmos_?”, “Angel, did my child just say ‘oh, bother’?”) 

Selim is talking a lot now and has learnt to call Aziraphale, Zirap. The less tongue-twisting ‘uncle’ being unaccountably vetoed by Crowley. He makes a persuasive argument and is allowed, in many layers of clothing, to go outside. He explores Aziraphale’s tiny garden and plays with the melting snow. His squeals of delight make Crowley anxious and he brings him back inside.

Aziraphale reopens the shop that same bright morning and does brisk business throughout the day. Late in the afternoon, when it has already started to get dark, he notices the queue of customers at the door has disappeared. There is a subtle shift in the texture of reality, a scent of unearthly cleanliness and the Archangel Gabriel is standing before him. He is dressed like a Persian prince in pearl grey flowing robes and turban.

“Gabriel, what an unexpected pleasure,” he says.

Under the counter, Aziraphale waves his hand twice. The first wave sends Crowley ‘somewhere safe’. He hasn’t time to work out where. The second ensures Selim’s safety. Precision is vitally important in a miracle. When a giggling Selim lands in his arms, he knows he could have done better. Gabriel, however, does not notice the child.

“Did I just sense miracles?” He asks.

“Er, yes,” Aziraphale says. “I was just – I was just putting some hot water to boil, in case you wanted tea.”

Gabriel grimaces, “I do not.”

“No? If you’re sure. The Chinese are doing marvellous things with leaves these days.” Gabriel looks both appalled and confused. “Well, um, anyway. To what do I owe this honour?”

And Selim shouts, “Hi!”

Gabriel is not listening to either of them. He is examining the countertop with its marble bust of Hippocrates, its ewer of mint tea and cups for the refreshment of customers. He moves on to inspect a shelf of medicine bottles, gazing at it for a long time. He peers into the powder casks and sticks his finger into an ointment jar. He picks up the ledger in which every transaction is recorded, studies it and throws it aside. 

“This is the _shop_ , is it? We heard you’d just opened a _shop_.”

Just? 

Time works differently in Heaven. This is what saves them.

“Cures and remedies?” Gabriel asks.

“That’s right.”

“It’ll have to go.”

“Go? But why? It’s doing so much good.”

“We can’t have you curing any human who wanders in off the street. Healing miracles are only performed for a good reason.”

“Oh, I only heal with good reason. Humans suffer dreadfully.”

Gabriel looks at him as if he found him stuck to his halo, “You’re misusing your powers, Aziraphale. Miracles are to glorify God, not help humans.”

Aziraphale will spend the next thirteen centuries believing he misheard this.

“But,” Gabriel goes on in a more conciliatory tone. “No harm done. You’re lucky we caught it quickly before you could do too much damage.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says sadly. “Very lucky.”

“But that’s not why I’m here! Let’s get down to business!” 

The sound of Crowley shouting suddenly fills Aziraphale’s mind. 

_“What’s happening?! Where’s Selim? Angel! Can you hear me?!”_

Their telepathy is, he now concludes, triggered by child-related anxiety. The shouting is so loud, he is astonished Gabriel can’t hear him too, but the archangel just keeps talking. 

“ _He’s fine_ ,” he replies with a thought. “ _Shut up. Stay away. Don’t use any powers_.”

He has to push Crowley’s voice down to concentrate on Gabriel.

“Sorry, what was that?”

It is just as well Gabriel already believes he is simple. He sighs, “I asked if you had sensed the presence of a demon recently?”

Well there’s one screaming in my head right now.

“No, no demons,” he says. “Not a sniff of one.”

“Are you sure? I can definitely smell something Hellish.”

“Oh, that’s the drains. You get used to it. Are you looking for any fiend in particular?”

“A low-ranking specimen named Crowley.”

“The serpent. I’d definitely know if he was around. What – er - foul deed has Crowley perpetrated?”

“He was supposed to kill a baby.”

Aziraphale freezes, “Wh - what?”

“Pay attention, Aziraphale, it’s like talking to a human.” He makes an exaggerated gesture with his hands, “Be Not Afraid. Better? All right, so a couple of weeks ago a baby was born in this city.”

Weeks?

“It was supposed to die. Hell sent Crowley to see to it.”

Aziraphale holds Selim closer, “Die? But why?”

“Policy objective,” Gabriel says. “But the soul didn’t turn up in Heaven.”

“You’re saying Hell wants the baby dead but not for its soul?”

“The soul is ours. We - they - just don’t want it on Earth.”

“Are Heaven and Hell working together?” 

“Aziraphale, let me be clear, Heaven does not work with Hell. I’m simply enquiring about the whereabouts of a soul promised to Heaven.”

“I see,” Aziraphale says coolly. 

“Icy,” says Selim in the same tone.

“I can’t imagine a demon saving a baby,” Aziraphale hastily declares. “I mean what hopeless kind of demon would do that? The child must have accidentally been sent to Hell. Have they checked?”

“They don’t know its missing,” Gabriel says. “I’ve been reviewing the soul delivery channels, making sure nothing went wrong with our logistics and there seems to have been no problem our end. I was hoping you could shed some light, since it happened under your nose but clearly you’ve been otherwise engaged.”

“Well – I –“

“No matter. I’m going to talk to Hell, get them to fulfil their undertakings.”

“You’re going to ask Hell to _kill_ a baby?”

“I told you, Aziraphale, it’s a policy matter. For the greater good, I assure you.”

Selim points at Gabriel’s magnificent turban and shouts, “Big head!”

Aziraphale smiles serenely, attempting to pretend that didn’t happen but Gabriel suddenly notices Selim.

“Aziraphale, is that a baby?”

“Who? Him? Hardly. This child is nearly two years old.” 

“The one we want is probably, I’m guessing, a third of the size of that one.” He demonstrates with his hands. “Yay big. They come out a lot smaller, you see.”

“How interesting. That is useful information.”

“Why have you got it? Is it for sale in your shop?”

“No! He - er - is the son of a customer. I’m keeping an eye on him.”

“You’re caring for their young, now?” Gabriel asks. “You need more work to do. Proper work.” 

“Of course. I’m always ready to serve.”

“You’re always ready to do some dumb thing.”

“Gabriel. Forgive me, but does this baby you’re looking for have to die? What could possibly justify killing a child?”

“Children grow up, Aziraphale. Listen, the soul has got a place in Heaven, without having to go through a long, hard life on this planet. It’s _lucky_.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale says.

“Humans do suffer _dreadfully_ , after all.”

He raises his hand and all Aziraphale’s stock vanishes. It is replaced by apples; overflowing piles of apples, on the shelves, on the counter, rolling all over the floor.

“Report back if you come across any demons with babies,” he says and disappears.

“Oh, bother!” Aziraphale exclaims.


	5. Bukhara, 712

Aziraphale shoos an approaching customer away, bolts the shop door and takes Selim into the back room.

_“Crowley! Can you hear me? Where are you?”_

He hopes he hasn’t sent him anywhere inconvenient. The moon, for example, would be a terrible nuisance. 

Crowley replies a long moment later, _“Other side of the market.”_

Oh, well that’s something.

_“Come back. No miracles. And be careful.”_

Crowley is soon tapping at the door. Aziraphale finds him doubled over, hands on knees and soaked through. 

“What on earth! Get by the fire. Quickly.” Aziraphale brings him in and locks up.

“Your sh-shop,” Crowley breathes. “What happened?”

“Gabriel was here. He didn’t approve.”

“Gabriel did this?”

“It doesn’t matter. A misjudgement on my part. You did warn me.”

“Apples. The fu-fucker.”

He bustles Crowley into the back room where he collapses on to his knees in front of the fire.

“I understand why you m-miracled me into a ssssnowdrift.”

“Oh! I’m so clumsy.”

Aziraphale settles a wide-eyed Selim on a rug, keeping him quiet with a biscuit.

He attempts to give Crowley a linen to dry himself with, but he seems to be falling asleep or half-unconscious. His mysterious earthly form is part human and part snake, with an interesting combination of species-specific attributes. A dramatic response to shocking cold is likely to be one of them.  
  
“Don’t you dare discorporate,” he commands, startling Crowley awake.

“Mm, not. Resting my eyes.”

“For goodness sake,” Aziraphale says. “Get out of those clothes, you’re shaking. Come here.”

He strips an apparently stunned Crowley of the thin tunic and leggings he wears indoors and wraps him in the linen. He dries him quickly, then gives him a set of his own robes to wear.

“Stay with me, Crowley,” he says getting him into the robe when dressing himself seems beyond him too. “I’m trying not to use powers.”

“Yeah, angel. S’good.”

He bundles him into a blanket while he heats water. Crowley lists against him like a capsizing boat. He still feels like a block of ice and is too drowsy to drink the tea Aziraphale makes for him. 

“Oh dear, you’d better -.” He sits more comfortably and reaches for him. “You’d better come here.”

He carefully pulls Crowley against him. Moving on instinct, Crowley cleaves to his ethereal warmth, folding his body into the shape of Aziraphale’s wherever he can. Aziraphale’s arms secure him and hold him fast.

“There,” he says softly, wondering anxiously if this will register upstairs as a healing miracle.

It doesn’t take long to work. Their mismatched corporations fit oddly well together and he can feel Crowley’s shivering subside, his skin warm, his body relax. 

His hair is still wet. Aziraphale loosens its black ribbon and frees the single plait to fall in damp curling strands. He diverts a little heat to his hand to stroke it dry. He has always been fascinated by the colour of it, that star-heart red. It never occurred to him it would also be soft. (A mistake he often makes where Crowley is concerned.) His hair is usually the first he sees of him; that copper coin, that summer sunset, that leaf fall. Approaching across a desert, through forest, across any town square. It has always meant, not danger, not adversary, but questions. Questions he would rather not ask.

Now he finds his questions slipping away. His one remaining thought is that he wants, oh he wants, to stay this way. 

He cannot. He strokes Crowley’s cheek.

“Wake up for me. I must tell you what happened.”

“Yeah,” Crowley says, not moving. “Awake.”

Selim, having finished his biscuit, crawls over to investigate and tug at Crowley’s robe with sticky fingers. Crowley at last detaches himself to run his fingers through Selim’s hair.

“Bastard stole your shop. Then what?”

“Gabriel was here looking for Selim.”

“He _what_?!”

He relates his encounter with the archangel.

“Heaven and Hell are working together?” Crowley asks, dismayed and incredulous.

“Because of little Selim. Why?”

“I don’t know! Why don’t I know?”

“He said, ‘children grow up’.”

“It’s something they think he’s going to do, then. A prophecy?”

“He’s just a human. What could he possibly do to damage both Heaven and Hell?”

Crowley gets up to pace the room, sweeping Selim up with him when he starts to fuss. Eventually the pacing stops and he becomes very still; just standing, unmoving with his eyes closed. Even with the restless child in his arms he doesn’t move. Finally, he turns to Aziraphale, eyes wholly serpent.

“I have to go away.”

“Hell can find you wherever you are.”

“I’m going on my own.”

This sinks in, “Oh, Crowley.”

“Hell will come looking for me as soon as Gabriel blabs to Lord Beelzebub. And then any child with me is in danger. Can you - you’ll have to – find a family for Selim.”

“Leave him with me,” Aziraphale finds himself saying. “I’ll be better able to protect him than a human family. Neither Hell nor Heaven know that we – that we don’t –.”

“You could still get into trouble, Aziraphale. Serious trouble.”

He knows this and he is not brave.

“They will have no reason to suspect Selim is the child they are looking for if he is with me. Gabriel didn’t, just now.”

“You don’t know that’s true.”

“He’s human. To them it’s like picking one ant from a nest. They don’t see difference as we do.”

“Are you certain?”

Not remotely, “Yes.”

Crowley rests his forehead against Selim’s, closes his eyes for a moment and seems to visibly gather his strength.

“There’s something I haven’t told you.” 

“You astonish me.”

“I registered Selim’s adoption in your name.”

“Mine?”

“With the city registry and with half a dozen religions. Muslims, Zoroastrians, Christians, the one with the four-armed goddess riding a whatever - lion.”

“Why did you?”

“That kind of thing matters to Hell; official documents, contracts, oaths, seals of office. They respect it. If Selim is officially associated with someone who isn’t me, it’s another layer of protection for him. I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known Heaven was involved. You should remove all the records when I’m gone.”

“So I am his parent in the eyes of God?”

“You - yes.”

“Is that why you haven’t taught him to call you ‘father’ or me ‘uncle’? You thought you would lose him.”

“I thought I might.”

“I will be a father to him. I will look after him as carefully as you would yourself. I won’t let you down.”

“Angel, thank you,” Crowley says, his voice faltering. “Hear that, darling? I’ve got to go now but you’ve got yourself a daddy. A good one, too. The best one.”

“Can you wait until morning?” Aziraphale asks starting to feel overwhelmed.

“There’s no time. It might already be too late.”

“Yes, I see that.”

“I need some clothes.”

“Will we risk a miracle?”

“You have to do it. I’m not using any powers until I’m far away.”

Aziraphale stands and with a shaking hand, wraps him in travelling clothes; in wool, fur and leather. Then he retrieves the day’s takings from the shop and gives the coins to Crowley.

“In case you need to pay for a drink or somewhere to stay.”

He fills a flask with wine and puts it in Crowley’s coat pocket. Then he doesn’t know what to do.

Crowley finds his eyeglasses on the desk and slips them on. And takes them off again, turning away to wipe his eyes on the back of his hand. Aziraphale sees he is crying. He cannot stand this.

His arms know him now. He brings him close, pressing him to his shoulder. Selim between them reaches to pat Crowley’s head. When Crowley looks up, Aziraphale kisses his tears.

“You keep safe, angel. Keep out of their way. Both sets of bastards. Kiss him for me now and then.”

Crowley whispers something to Selim, who listens seriously. He hugs him and hands him to Aziraphale and is gone. Selim weeps distraught tears and won’t be comforted. It is weeks before he stops asking for his Crow, the question never quite leaving his eyes in the eighty-two years he is alive. 


	6. Mahal Dibiyat, 792

Aziraphale is on a boat sailing the Indian ocean. He could have flown. He has spent decades as a bird and now finds the transformation natural. But today he resists going on the wing, tries to forget how it feels to coast on air currents, to inhabit a small, intense bird mind. Today he concentrates on maintaining his human form, enjoying the different freedoms of its never silent thoughts. He wears a well-cut robe, carries a tapestry bag, has lunch wrapped in cloth for when hunger strikes, wine for when he is thirsty. He begins to remember why he likes this earthbound body.

For reasons unknown to the captain, they dock at the island of Mahal Dibiyat. Aziraphale alights at the quiet quayside and borrows a donkey. 

The house is at the top of a steep path, among palms and banyans, overlooking a small rocky bay and a midnight blue sea. It has been imagined into existence; reality streams around it, but its appearance is that of a wooden house with a shady porch and a palm leaf roof. 

Crowley has come to meet him on the path. Despite the heat, he is wearing a long dark robe of heavy wool, hooded to protect him from the sun. He is supporting himself with a stick and Aziraphale can see he is in pain. A pain it is beyond his power to control. Crowley watches as Aziraphale dismounts and sends the donkey home with coins in its saddle bag.

“Angel,” he says. 

His eyes are serpentine gold with no hint of white and his arms are sheathed in red and black scales. He rests his hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder and takes him to the porch where a second chair appears at the table.

“Selim’s dead now, isn’t he?” Crowley asks as he slowly sits.

A jug of palm wine shimmers into existence between them, followed by two cups. He leaves Aziraphale to pour. 

“He is. But he lived a long, happy life. He has four children and, at the last count, six grandchildren.”

“You’re a grandfather. You’re a _great_ grandfather.”

Aziraphale smiles, “I think perhaps we both are.”

“Tell me about him.”

“He stayed as sweet as he ever was. He went to school, he learnt his letters, he learnt mathematics and to speak four languages. They teach the boys to be traders in Bukhara and he took to it. He worked as a clerk to a merchant. Then at his own business buying and selling Chinese goods until he retired.” 

He married Fuzhitai’s niece when they were both nineteen. It was a happy marriage; they gave their children happy lives and they grew up to be good people. None of it would have happened without you.”

“Or you.”

Aziraphale had made his life as human as possible to better teach Selim, letting his body age as human bodies age, seeing only the pale colours they saw. 

He reopened his shop as a way of staying in the arcade. Instead of remedies he sold supplies to the artists, scholars and scribes of the town, specialising in marvellous paper from China and Samarkand. He took to sleeping at night and waking each morning. He shopped in the market and cooked for them both. He washed in well water, he shaved his beard. He let his hair grow so they could visit the barber together, let their clothes and shoes wear out so they could replace them now and again. He understood what humans endured by living one of their lives. The unending labour to simply survive, the rare moments of pause.

There are joys too, denied to angels and demons. He remembers a five-year-old Selim’s wild enthusiasms and breathless storytelling. He remembers how, at that age, he loved to climb on to his lap and fall asleep there. He remembers him proudly showing off his newly acquired reading skills and watching him receive his certificate when he finished school. He remembers attending his wedding and the birth of all his children. It seems an unnecessary cruelty to share these most precious memories with Crowley.

Despite his threat, Gabriel did not send him much more work to do. But when the gold trimmed scrolls occasionally arrived, he announced a ‘business trip’, packed Selim up and brought him along.

He likes to believe Selim never suspected there was anything unusual about his adopted father, bar the occasional eccentricity and bout of insomnia. He did, however, have unanswered questions. Why, for example, did their shop have extra rooms and a garden when the neighbouring establishments did not? How could it all fit? Selim worried over that one for years. Aziraphale muttering about frightfully clever architects did not help. Similarly, how did a library worth of manuscripts fit into one cupboard which also held their clothes, winter bedding and dinner plates? Why did neither of them ever get ill? Plenty of vegetables and exercise, his father said sternly. When he was old enough to look at the shop ledgers, Selim never got an acceptable answer to his question about how they lived at all, when the shop barely made enough profit in a week to buy a bowl of noodles.

He never questioned the presents that arrived. A carved wooden bird with moving parts came on his second birthday. (A note scribbled on the wrapping said, ‘say it’s from you’.) A spinning top came from Spain on his third birthday. On his fourth a kite from Kabul. On his fifth an Egyptian jade cat. On his sixth a child-sized lyre. He never questioned why there were no more gifts from far off places after his thirty ninth birthday.

If he formed a question at all, he never got an answer to why, when he began to go out without his father, running through the market square with the other children of the arcade or walking to school each day, there was always a white bird flying above him or perching on the nearest branch or roof. He never asked why one was always with him when he became an adult.

Once Aziraphale judged he could not realistically stay alive any longer, he found a cave to store his growing collection of manuscripts and protected it with miracles. Then he went home to die a thoroughly convincing death and narrowly escape discorporation through cremation.

Selim’s household, from then on, was never without a white bird of one kind or another nesting on the orange tree in the garden. The family all knew the birds; the children named them, Selim’s wife left crumbs out. She soon learnt stale bread went untouched, but cake was highly regarded. These birds apparently had standards. They were there until the day of Selim’s death and had not been seen since.

“No one came?” Crowley asked.

“No one came.”

“Did he – I don’t know - do anything that would interest Hell or Heaven?”

“I don’t believe so. He didn’t start any wars or stop any. He didn’t rule, he wasn’t a slave. He wasn’t rich, he wasn’t poor. He didn’t bother much about any religion, but he did what was expected of him. He lived a life no different to many others.”

“Where is he now?”

“Heaven, although I don’t know if it’s safe to visit him there, so I haven’t.”

“I always thought he grew up a bit like you,” Aziraphale says. “Very tall, thin, a touch of auburn in his hair, as if you had left a mark. He was sweet natured and generous, as you are.” Crowley rolls his eyes at this. “But he was quiet and cautious too. He never gave me a moment’s worry throughout his life.”

“That’s not quite true, is it?” Crowley says with a smile.

Aziraphale laughs, “I’d forgotten about that.”

When Selim was six, he disappeared from the shop. Aziraphale had been serving a customer with a consuming list of requirements when he noticed the child was no longer playing at his feet. He could not find him in any of the back rooms or in the garden and when he hurried out into the arcade, he was not there either. He remembers being convinced the worst had happened; Hell, or even Heaven had taken him. He had failed Selim and failed Crowley. He had lost his dear little one when he was still so young and helpless. That was when he heard Crowley’s voice.

_“Angel. What’s going on? Speak to me. I can feel you panicking from the Himalayas.”_

Having a demon in his head demanding information was frankly annoying when he needed to think. It was, however, enough to remind him, through his distress, that he was not human, that despite his disguise, he still had powers at his disposal.

He opened some of the eyes he was accustomed to keeping closed and the familiar sandy-hued world burst into colour. And there, he saw it; Selim’s aura in all its childish effervescence. He followed the trail it left, out of the arcade and on to a street at the back of the market. It continued up a ladder leading to the flat roof of a house. An animal energy was just ahead of it, one belonging to a neighbour’s blessed cat. With which Selim was obsessed.

_“Angel, please.”_

_“Just be quiet.”_

He practically levitated up the ladder and when he did not see the boy on the flat roof, he folded his arms and used his strictest voice.

“Selim, come here this instant.”

Out he crept from behind some water pots, chastened, with a moody cat clasped in his arms.

 _“It’s all right, Crowley,”_ he said. _“I’ve got him. Do you hear me?”_

_“Yeah, angel. Yeah, I do. I nearly discorporated there, but I hear you.”_

The cat broke free and Aziraphale picked Selim up. As he held him tightly, he calmed and Crowley’s voice faded away.

It was the last he heard from him.

There was one other occasion when he feared for Selim’s earthly life. Crowley does not know about this one.

Selim was in his fifty-seventh year by then and travelling east with a caravan of traders toward Chang’an. Aziraphale accompanied him as a bird. He flew overhead or perched on one of the camels, enjoying being out of the city, crossing mountain and desert landscapes. It was a simple accident. Selim’s camel was startled by one of the dogs and threw him off. He landed headfirst and lay broken and unconscious.

Before Aziraphale had time to consider the wisdom of his actions he had healed him. He nodded his bird-head and it was done. Selim got up, brushed the dust from his clothes and the caravan went on its way.

Once Aziraphale had recovered from the shock of what had happened, once he stopped fretting about whether he shouldn’t have allowed Selim his natural death, once he stopped expecting Heaven’s retribution for an unauthorised healing miracle, he realised his fear for Selim should have opened a channel of communication with Crowley. It always had in the past. He could only conclude from the silence that something had happened to him. Hell must have caught him and destroyed him. It was the only explanation. 

It also made sense of the feeling he’d had for a long time now; the conviction that something – _something precious_ – had been taken from him.

He stopped flying, he stopped eating the crumbs Selim scattered for him, he no longer noticed the borders they crossed or the scenery they travelled through. He felt so distracted, so dreadfully out of sorts, he assumed he had made an error with his current vessel, that there was something amiss with the bird-form he was inhabiting. He spent the rest of the journey as a mouse in Selim’s saddle bag. It did nothing to improve his disposition.

A quarter of a century later when Selim finally passed away, an old man with his family around him, the melancholy strengthened its hold. He didn’t question it this time; he recognised it as a father’s grief for a beloved child. Was it possible then, that what he had experienced when he lost Crowley was grief? Surely an angel could not grieve for a demon? Angels, with their boundless understanding, with their part in the perfection of the Great Plan were not designed for such small human emotions. And surely, he would not have been created with the ability to mourn one of the Fallen.

But neither were demons designed for kindness, a small voice reminded him. And his own demon had always been kinder than he. It was what must have cost him his life.

He came again to the unavoidable conclusion that he was lacking something as an angel. Gabriel certainly believed so. Just as Crowley had lacked truly demonic qualities. What a pair they had made with all their flaws and shortcomings. Now he was no longer part of a pair he must stumble along alone.

*~*

Crowley returning to the planet, returning to life, came as gift and revelation. He knew immediately. A missing puzzle piece slotted into place. A silver coin of moon appeared from behind a cloud. All he had to do was follow its light.

“Hell came for you?” He asks.

“Took me right off the street in Damascus. How long was I gone?” 

“About forty years, I believe.”

“I didn’t realise it was so long.”

“You’ve suffered dreadfully.”

Crowley shrugs, “But they let me go, let me keep my job. It’s not so bad.”

“I’m afraid I can’t agree. Did you discover what it was all about?”

“No. Eventually I realised even they didn’t know why they wanted Selim. They had some intelligence about a birth; a human prophecy from centuries ago associated with Silver Street. Persuasive enough to set off alarm bells both upstairs and down but not specific. I told them there was no baby when I got there, dead or alive. I just stuck to that story; it wasn’t hard.”

All he’d had to do was say one word and the unimaginable pain would have stopped. He kept silent and ensured the safety of both Selim and himself. He did not speak for forty years.


	7. Mahal Dibiyat, 792

Crowley reaches for the jug to refill their cups. The slight movement causes a wave of pain, Aziraphale can almost see it.

“Come inside,” he says. “I can help with your injuries.”

“An angel can’t heal a demon,” Crowley replies as wine splashes on to his hand and he abandons the task.

“I’ve done it before.”

“When you nearly discorporated me by throwing me into the snow?”

“Well, yes.”

“This is different.”

“Because it was your corporeal form that was damaged? This is an injury to your true form, I understand that. I believe I can help.”

Crowley hesitates, “Yeah?”

“I’m sure I can.”

He considers for a long time before seemingly coming to the conclusion he has nothing to lose, “All right.”

Aziraphale lends him his arm to help him stand.

*~*

The house is one room, furnished with a wood-framed bed. There is a fire roaring in the grate, miracled to never burn out. Aziraphale helps Crowley to lie down and covers him with a blanket. 

“Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the thought,” Crowley says, having mustered another argument. “But you rummaging about in my essence, won’t it be like lying in a bath of holy water?”

“No, it won’t, because firstly, I do not _rummage_. And secondly, I am considerably more powerful than a bath of holy water. A fact I don’t think you’ve ever fully appreciated.”

“All right, all right, just checking.”

He strokes back Crowley’s hair, “I won’t hurt you, I promise.”

He removes Crowley’s clothes with a thought. The serpent has spread across his shoulder and chest; a lava flow of rich and iridescent scales across pale human skin. Aziraphale lays his hand on him. Despite the intense heat, he is as cold as he was last time; snowdrift cold. But beyond that, beneath it, he experiences his pain as fire. It flares in blooms, in raging, exploding violence. His essence is a battlefield; even second hand it is terrible. 

“Oh, Crowley,” he whispers.

Crowley does not reply but closes his eyes.

“It would help if I lay beside you.” 

Crowley shifts to make room for him in the narrow bed. He removes his own robe and climbs in. Without prompting, Crowley turns and lays his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

“Dear fellow.”

Aziraphale finds the hair under his hand tangled and matted. He caresses it until it is smooth and clean.

“I’m feeling better already,” Crowley says.

He surrounds him with his own warmth and murmurs a few comforting words. Crowley appears to relax, but when he tries to delve further, he meets a wall.

“I can feel you keeping me out,” he says. “You’ve got your armour on, Black Knight. Of course you have. You’ve had to protect yourself for so long, against so much, its instinctive. I know how it is. I’ve been finding it hard to avoid transforming into a bird since I’ve been in the habit of it. Twice it happened by accident, can you imagine?”

“Can’t imagine you as a bird, at all, to be honest. Even a fluffy, white dove.”

“Selim could hardly have his dead father following him around. Humans are terribly sensitive about that sort of thing.”

“But a bird. Last time I saw you fly you sliced off the top of a pyramid.”

“I made sure I didn’t fly while inebriated after that, thank you very much. Anyway, I was only flying so low because I had to fish someone out of the Nile before they discorporated.”

“I was fine, I told you, I was swimming.”

“With your wings out? You’re not a duck, you sank like a stone and it took days to get all the river gunk out of your feathers. Then there was all that Return of the Sky God business to deal with. Upstairs were _furious_.”

Crowley starts laughing and a chink appears in the armour. It is enough.

“You’ll go to sleep now,” he tells him.

He doesn’t allow Crowley to wake for three days. He holds him throughout while he probes deep into his pain. He finds and soothes away each wound, cools each fiery flare. He heals the scars left behind and leaves him whole again. 

By the end, there is another change. By the time he has finished, he has persuaded himself Crowley is really alive, he is really here. He has taken off his own armour, the strong metal protecting him from the ache of grief (for want of a better word) and allowed himself to believe it. Without the solid reality of the body in his embrace, without their mingling essences he might never have.

When he has done all he can, he gets up but leaves Crowley to wake naturally. This takes another three days.

*~*

Aziraphale has been sitting outside for most of the morning, enjoying the sunshine and watching a small bird with bright blue plumage in a nearby tree. When Crowley finally appears, he is critiquing its take-off and landing technique.

“Look at it,” Aziraphale says. “All that unnecessary fluttering.”

“Don’t get in a flap, angel, don’t lay an egg.”

“Oh, very funny. You’re feeling better, I take it.” 

He can see he is. It makes his imaginary heart lift, but Crowley doesn’t need to know that. 

“I will never doubt you again,” Crowley says spreading his wings and looking with approval at his newly pristine feathers.

He has miracled himself a thin robe more appropriate to the climate and his hair is tied back. His skin has settled back to mostly human but he walks with his old familiar snaky gait. 

“How is the pain now?”

“Gone. Completely gone. I thought I would always have it. Even the memory hurts less, is that possible?”

“I saw what was done to you. I wish Selim could know there is someone who loves him so dearly.”

“Better he knows nothing about it,” Crowley says, shrugging off the sentiment. “Shall we go diving? Wings in. We can go and see the coral, they’re supposed to be beautiful.”

“I must leave. I’ve been here too long already.”

There can be no justification if they are discovered together in this remote spot. Crowley knows it and doesn’t argue.

“There’s a boat that can make a diversion,” Aziraphale says with a beckoning gesture. “It should be here soon.”

“I’ll come to the quay with you.”

“I’ve summoned the donkey.”

“In that case, you’re on your own.”

“I thought I might be.”

He retrieves his tapestry bag and from it takes a linen wrapped parcel and an enamelled box. He unwraps Crowley’s embroidery from the parcel.

“You left in such a hurry, you didn’t take your work with you.”

Crowley reacquaints himself with it, examining it critically. Then he gives it back to Aziraphale.

“I’d like you to have it. If you want it. It’s my best so far. If you stayed longer, I could finish it. There’s just a small bit of border to do, it wouldn’t take long.”

Aziraphale takes the piece back from him, “I will continue to treasure it, but I think perhaps I prefer it incomplete.”

“Yeah?”

“The most beautiful things are imperfect. At least that is what I have come to believe from my time living on this planet.”

“Don’t let Gabriel hear you say that.”

“I suppose it isn’t a particularly Heavenly sentiment, but it is certainly true of Earth, of the things humans create, of the lives they lead. Imperfect but still beautiful.”

“We should drink to that next time we get a chance,” Crowley says softly.

Somehow, they baffle their own kinds but can understand each other. Two imperfect creatures, two chipped cups, two workshop rejects with matching flaws.

He picks up the box, decorated with the Islamic geometric designs now popular in Bukhara and gives it to Crowley. 

“This is for you,” Aziraphale says. “I had an artist, one or other of my customers, make a sketch of Selim every few years. The later ones include his family. They’re in here, along with a few things of his I saved for you. There’s a lock of hair, his first baby tooth, some of his school work, that sort of thing.”

“I don’t know if I’m strong enough for this,” Crowley says, holding the box as carefully as he had once held a baby.

“I’ve made sure nothing will deteriorate,” he says. “So you’ll always have them.”

“And if you ever want to look at them.”

The last time they were together a biscuit-scented toddler was full of life between them, now there is nothing but a box it is too painful to open. It makes the memory of Selim’s death new and sharp, and makes Aziraphale yearn for that long-ago winter. He does not know how much time passes before he notices Crowley’s hand clasping his across the table, so tightly he wouldn’t have been able to free himself even if he had wanted to.

“I’ve been thinking about your proposition,” he says.

“My – I - what?” Crowley’s hand cautiously withdraws.

“In Wessex, when you suggested we work together more.”

“Oh, right, the proposition I made three hundred years ago?”

“I needed time to think about it.”

“And?”

“I should like to take you up on it, depending on the terms.”

“You won’t regret it,” Crowley says with a gleam in his eye which makes Aziraphale instantly regret it.

“I can’t do anything evil.”

“I generally leave the evil to the humans, to be honest.”

By the time the donkey comes ambling up the path, they have a set of rules and a means of communicating with each other. They refer to it as the Arrangement. 


	8. London and Bukhara, 2039

They marry at Lambeth registry office on a sunny weekday afternoon. Their wedding rings are made from platinum that Crowley, astonishing creature, once mined from a passing asteroid. Their suits are made for the occasion by Aziraphale’s tailor. Crowley asks Aziraphale to choose his tie which he gladly does, but the tailor’s suggestion that they wear matching outfits results in so much bickering it threatens to capsize the whole endeavour and is declined. Their choices, nevertheless, work well together. Aziraphale finishes his outfit with a beautiful and ancient embroidered silk scarf.

The Them are the only wedding guests. Crowley assumes Aziraphale wants the four at the ceremony because the presence of a dormant antichrist would give the event greater legitimacy in the eyes of Above and Below. This is not the reason. In truth, he gives scant thought to what the Medieval minds of Heaven and Hell might make of a marriage of an angel to a demon. Since the two of them escaped hellfire, holy water and gainful employment, there has been nothing but blessed silence from their former employers. 

They do have to postpone arrangements while they wait for Adam and Dog to be able to take a day off from the endangered tree they are occupying. After a strong start, Adam has made planet-saving his life’s work. It is not known which of his fathers is more distressed by this career choice.

Adam and Pepper win the coin toss for official witnesses. Crowley spots the miracle ensuring this but, again, mistakes the reason. 

Brian reads poems at the ceremony, chosen during quiet mornings in Mr Fell’s bookshop, which he now manages. It is a going concern since he took it over after university. Brian lives upstairs in the shop’s flat which has also become The Them’s London den.

Aziraphale keeps his private collection in the house he shares with Crowley. He has rediscovered his love of shop-keeping since his misprinted bibles and first editions are no longer in danger. Instead of damp and unease, the shop now smells of coffee and cake (which are provided). Aziraphale opens the doors at seven each morning to welcome customers on their way to work. If Crowley doesn’t come and take him to dinner, the shop stays open all night for the benefit of those on their way home from clubs and bars who find themselves in urgent need of Wilde or Woolf. In fact, Brian asks Crowley to tell him he is being _too_ welcoming and scaring people, so could he dial it down a notch.

Wensleydale has permission from Aziraphale’s favourite Soho family restaurant to take over their kitchen and cook the wedding dinner. He had come away from the hazily remembered events at Tadfield Airbase with the idea that you can choose your own path and had trained, not to be a chartered accountant actually, but a chef. It is an excellent dinner and features some perfectly serene vegetables grown by Crowley.

At Aziraphale’s insistence and with a great show of reluctance, Crowley ran an experimental trial on his allotment. This involved treating half his beans, carrots and parsnips with kindness while continuing to menace the other half. The results were conclusive, there was no denying them, and quietly relieved, he adapted his method accordingly. The only disadvantage is that he now has to deal with the crops on the neighbouring patches edging closer to his own and waiting expectantly for him to murmur sweetly to them too. Aziraphale knows how they feel.

The head chef bakes the wedding cake and all the restaurant’s customers receive a slice. Everyone stands to watch and applaud the first dance, which is more a first cling. The CD the waiter puts on is Frank Sinatra’s version of _A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square_ but Queen’s _You Take My Breath Away_ works just as well and makes everyone cry.

At the end of the evening, as Crowley drives them home, Aziraphale looks in wonder at his wedding ring. He can feel in it the thrum of magic. It is an Earthly magic which cannot easily be pressed into boxes marked good or evil but celebrates life and love. The possibility of marrying his dear one, was beyond imagination for so many thousands of years but now, with the reciting of a spell; just a few words and a promise, it has been done.

*~*

Crowley’s wedding present to Aziraphale is a trip to Bukhara and they leave the next day. 

Lovely though it is, there is little remaining of the city they knew. Even its most ancient buildings; its mosques and tombs, its bazaars and medressehs are from after their time. But traces of the eighth century remain, in the streets and squares of the old town, in the weather-warped wood, in the calls of the traders, in the tastes and smells. The Bukharans have not lost their appetite for plov and hot bread, for mutton skewers and fried noodles. Neither has Aziraphale.

At the end of their first day, they go to dinner at a courtyard restaurant. When they have finished their meal and the plates have been cleared, Aziraphale hands Crowley a gift wrapped in silver paper.

“What’s this?” Crowley asks.

“Your present.”

“You’re my present.”

“Oh, hush.”

Aziraphale watches him unwrap a book; bible-thick and loosely covered in silk. He leafs through. The book is filled with pictures of humans, one on each tissue-thin page. They are all photographs; a mix of portraits and full length, individuals and families, holiday snaps and studio pictures, blurred selfies and formal passport photos. He gives Aziraphale a questioning look. The humans seem to have nothing in common other than their species. They are all genders, ages and skin colours. Their clothes are from across the world and the different faiths. 

Aziraphale removes the silk to reveal hand tooled leather binding. In gold lettering, the title is given as Selim’s Descendants.

“Not all,” Aziraphale clarifies. “Just the ones who are currently on Earth.”

“How in Heaven did you do this?” Crowley asks.

“It wasn’t easy. Human records are terribly unreliable, no sooner do they start keeping them do they set them on fire. A rather complicated series of miracles involving Selim’s baby tooth did the trick.”

“This is incredible.”

“Then they sent me their photographs, the dears.”

“Look at them all.”

“None of these people would be alive without you.”

“Or you, angel. Or you.”

Aziraphale leans across and turns to a page near the front of the book, “Look who turned up.”

The picture Aziraphale shows him is of someone he recognises; her name is even on his marriage certificate. Pippin Galadriel Moonchild, Barrister at Law, war crime specialist and professional argument starter. She is holding her baby daughter, Cayenne on her hip and giving a cheeky two fingered peace sign to the camera.

The mystery of more than a thousand years is solved.

“Pepper!”

“Yes.”

“Our Pepper Pot? She was the reason. She was why Hell and Heaven both wanted Selim dead? Even if they didn’t know it.”

“I believe so.”

Selim’s forty-or-so-times great granddaughter would befriend the antichrist. She would be part of what made him so hard to corrupt and would be beside him on what should have been the last day. She would defeat War with her own sword and prevent the apocalypse. His name meant peace and she, for a moment, _was_ peace.

“When you saved Selim, you saved the world.”

“Do you think she looks like him?” Crowley asks. “I think she does. A bit. In the smile.”

“Oh yes, definitely in the smile.”

“Well, we can check.”

“Pardon?”

“I’ve got you a present too,” Crowley says.

“This holiday is my present.”

“Part of it. Come on, we have to go outside. I think the weather’s about to turn.”

“Nonsense, it’s a beautiful evening. What are you up to?”

Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hand and leads him the short walk to where the remedies shop used to stand. The arcade has long gone but the street is still lined with shops, all open at this late hour.

Aziraphale feels a cold wetness on his face and holds his hand out. He finds it is _snowing_. A snowstorm gathers pace, falling in fat flakes and settling thickly on the ground. He looks around to see how the people in the crowded street are reacting and finds they are alone.

“Anthony J Crowley,” he exclaims. “We are supposed to be keeping a low profile.”

“Says the angel who DNA tested the whole planet.”

Crowley grins, flings an arm up and they are standing outside the remedies shop.

“I always wanted to come back here,” he says. “I missed it when I was away.”

Aziraphale kisses the hand that holds his and pushes open the door. The shop is just as it was before Gabriel’s visit, with its shelves of colourful liquids, jars of powders and ewer of steaming mint tea. He checks the ledger and sees the day’s transactions faithfully recorded.

Aziraphale opens the door to the back room where a fire burns in the grate, casting a warm, golden light over the cosy room. A small child appears, sitting among the cushions. He clambers to his feet to greet them with a happy shout. 

*~*

They turn a wall to glass so Selim, or this memory of him, can watch the snow fall. Crowley sprawls with his head on Aziraphale’s lap as Selim finds a cosy spot between them to nestle.

Crowley had once asked Aziraphale if he ever considered the consequences of what had happened between them in Mahal Dibiyat. For days, their essences, their true selves, the stuff of their creation, dark and light, demon and angel, had mixed and mingled. How could it not have changed them? Aziraphale said he hadn’t spotted any demonic tendencies in himself in the aftermath, not any new ones anyway, and he certainly hadn’t noticed Crowley becoming any less incorrigible. The truth is they had always been different.

They had departed from orthodoxy almost from the beginning, each softening the hard edges of the instructions received from their oblivious masters. They had consorted and fraternised and drunk too much in every corner of the planet. They had even communicated telepathically. The telepathy had not returned after Selim’s death. Not until the next time a child came into their lives - during fraught moments in Warlock’s upbringing. It comes upon them occasionally when Pepper leaves dear Cayenne, with them. It is something that seems naturally to happen when babies happen. What this says about the ancient understanding of what it means to be of angel stock, only She knows.

He used to think of them as two creatures defined by their flaws, by the ways they deviated from the moulds they were sprung from. Now he finds himself believing they are just living things like any other; making the best of what they were given at their creation, what they collected along the way and who they uniquely are. It is a pleasingly plan-free way of thinking.

Selim falls asleep against a comfortable and familiar bit of Crowley. Crowley falls silent too as Aziraphale runs fingers through his hair, cut short again in accordance with some unfathomable personal schedule. All is silent. Not one of the 7 billion humans surrounding them tonight utters a sound.

There is another kind of silence. One that has stretched across these last two decades. Since the antichrist chose humanity and the traitors escaped destruction, no angel or demon has been near. The portals to Heaven and Hell have been bolted shut, no scroll has been delivered, not even a letter of dismissal. Crowley occasionally declares that the immortals have been scared off and now fear to leave their footprints on Earth’s sands. Aziraphale makes him sober up when he starts along those lines. He doesn’t want any inadvertent challenges issued. 

But he can’t disagree that things are different. Earth has felt like a simpler place since its abandonment. Of course, time works differently in the other realms and it doesn’t do to be complacent. Neither has there been any noticeable change in the humans. They remain as terrible and wonderful as they ever were, the purpose of _their_ creation as blurred as it ever was.

But if they are no longer pawns in a great game and no longer obliged to bear the burden of an unknowable plan, perhaps a new beginning can be permitted. Perhaps there will be a new garden, sown by humans and nurtured with the kindest of words.

End

April 2020


End file.
